


I'm Not Gay!

by Anaamikaa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Canon Compliant, Established relationship?, Female John Watson, Freeform, Genderswap, How Do I Tag, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Don't Even Know, I can't write any genre except angst kmn, I know the title sounds like it's a crack fic, I'll be writing this for a looong time, Male Irene, Male Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, No Plot/Plotless, Not What It Looks Like, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, What Was I Thinking?, because there is zero plot here, making it up as I go, maybe it is who knows we shall see, not going to put spoilers in the tags now am I?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8952109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaamikaa/pseuds/Anaamikaa
Summary: Life can be a joke sometimes, Joan thinks. And nothing is ever what it seems when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Gear up for a Hollywood style, scientifically incorrect, highly implausible retrograde amnesia. I’m sorry it’s incorrect, okay? I can’t help that I envisioned the story this way. I read up a lot on all kinds of amnesia but I couldn’t think of a way to fit my idea into the reality of our biology. (Flashes Artistic License) I can do it my way though!

* * *

 

_“22 Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it.”_

_“He’s not just going to ring the doorbell now, is he? Need to be mad.”_

_“He_ has _killed four people.”_

_“...okay.”_

_“Sherlock, anything on the menu—whatever you want—free, on the house for you_ and _for your date.”_

_“Do you want to eat?”_

_“I’m not his date,” Joan looks up at the stranger in disbelief._

_“This man got me off a murder charge.”_

_“He’s Angelo,” Sherlock gestures and Joan takes the proffered hand, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock’s words. “...housebreaking.”_

_“He cleared my name.”_

_“I cleared it a bit.”_

_“I would’ve gone to prison.”_

_“You_ did _go to prison.”_

_“I’ll get a candle for the table. It’s more romantic.”_

_“I’m not his date,” Joan lets her voice fall at the end. She eyes Sherlock but he doesn’t seem to have heard the word ‘date’ being thrown around in conversation._

_“Thanks,” she mutters when Angelo brings the small candle and plops it onto their table. It’s not like it mattered anyways._

_She restarts the conversation about archenemies, and friends and it’s at his “dull” when curiosity gets the better of her._

_“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”_

_“Girlfriend? No. Not really my area.”_

_Joan takes a beat to realize what that could mean._

_“Alright. Do you have a boyfriend?” Sherlock throws her a careful look. “Which is_ fine, _by the way,” she hastily clarifies. She’s the one to talk._

_“I know it’s fine.”_

_She smiles at that, pleased._

_“So you’ve got a boyfriend.”_

_“No,” he’s quick, too. Was he offended?_

_“Right. Okay,” she huffs, trying to pacify him. “You’re unattached. Just like me. Fine. Good.”_

_She turns back to her food, mulling over this new acquaintance when he speaks up._

_“Joan...um, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and while I’m flattered by your interest—”_

_“_ No,” _she cuts in, trying to be quick with her words around the food in her mouth._

_“—I’m really not looking for anything—“_

_“No,” she emphasizes, shaking her head while clearing her throat. “I’m not—asking,” she throws him a ’are you for real’ look and repeats herself, “No.”_

_“I’m just saying,” she fixes him with a look, “It’s all fine.”_

_“Good.”_

_Well, then._

_“Thank you.”_

_She just stares at nothing for a few moments, replaying the whole incident, wondering if it really happened._

_Alright._

 

* * *

 

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Loud. Irritating.

Dry mouth? Cough, cough, swallow.

Raw throat—parched, _hurts._

Turn head—aching neck, throbbing skull—impending migraine?

Breathe in deeply, once, twice. Body sluggish.

 _ECG_ beeping _?!_

Open eyes, eyelashes stuck—slept too long?

Open carefully now—light hurts, too.

Bit more slowly, once again.

“ _Joan?_ ”

Not alone? Focus. Blink.

An unfamiliar face.

I blinked again to let my vision clear. The face swam into focus and I squinted to let my eyes adjust to the light.

Bright eyes observed me, vivid in their sharpness.

A man leaned over me, his silhouette framed by blinding lights and pale walls.

“Why—” I cleared my hoarse throat, and tried again, “why am I here?”

The tension in his face seemed to clear and he began speaking, “You were hit on the case. You don’t remember?”

“Case?” I asked.  The throbbing was getting stronger.

A nurse walked in at the moment, followed by who I assumed was the doctor going by the way she was dressed, and the air of authority and intelligence she had.

“She has forgotten the incidents that happened within the last 36 hours,” the man notified the doctor immediately.

The doctor referred to my papers as the nurse checked my vitals.

“Does it hurt?” The nurse asked softly, glancing towards me with one hand hovering over a button.

“My head—“ I began but cringed as it hurt even harder when I turned my head to look at him.

“Ah, a little more morphine then,” he murmured and turned back to his work.

“Do you remember anything else?” The doctor asked this time.

I shook my head, trying hard to sift through my mind even as the pain pulsed harder.

“But...” I began and three pairs of eyes rested on me at once. “Who are you?” I asked the man I had woken up to.

The doctor’s eyes widened fractionally and she asked, “You don’t recognize him?”

“I don’t think I have seen him before,” I replied.

The shared glances between the nurse and the doctor were alarmed. I could sense the tension in the room, but the man seemed calm.

“What’s the matter?” I tried, ignoring the scratchiness of my throat.

“Well, Miss. Watson, he’s your husband.”

_What?_

How bad was the memory loss that I couldn’t remember my own husband?

But that question gave way to another, a more significant one.

I must have been too concussed to realize what it meant before I asked it.

“Is that my name?”

 

* * *

 

Joan has suffered enough at the hands of Sherlock Holmes. She believes that karmic retributions should have had Sherlock dead by now, at least. Even though she knows he has suffered, too. But not quite enough. Never enough.

Screw him to make her feel murderous towards the one person she loved most in the world.

Or was that two now?

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 4 AM and I wrote all of this half asleep because I couldn't handle 22 hits on an empty-ish prologue so here you go now. Pardon any drunken mistakes.

* * *

 

_"Deal with it, Mycroft."_

_"Alright. But I shall not deal with the people involved. What have you done, Sherlock."_

_"Shut up, Mycroft. I can hardly see the future."_

 

* * *

 

"Okay, you've got questions."

Joan thanks God that he finally acknowledged the heavy silence in the cab.

"Yeah. Where are we going?"

"Home. Next."

"Who are you? I mean, I know they said you're my hus—we’re married—just, what do you do...?"

"What do you think?"

"I have no clue."

"Hmm."

He doesn't elaborate on it any further and Joan doesn't have time to ask because the cab driver pulls up at the curb then and he steps out the next instant. The cab driver fixes her with a look, an expectant one and goes, "Well?"

"Ah," she mutters and starts going through her pockets, patting each one on her pants before coming up empty handed.

She fumbles with her jacket pockets speechlessly when the cabbie gives her a disdainful look. She steps out of the cab with a "one moment please" thrown at the cabbie and eyes Sherlock Holmes' back waiting by a door before grimacing and calling out.

"Mr. Holmes!"

His head snaps around to look at her and he raises a single eyebrow in question. She jabs a thumb over her shoulder at the waiting cab, shrugging helplessly.

"Of course," she hears him mutter before he strides towards her, towards the cab door and throws a few bills he procures from his coat pocket through the open window.

Joan winces when she hears the cabbie curse loudly before he drives away, but he seems unaffected in the way he walks straight back to the black door now open, an old woman standing by it with a worried look on her face. Joan notices an ornate door knocker and the golden 221B over it.

This must be her home.

"Oh, Sherlock, I was so worried," she states needlessly, pulling him down for a hug.

Mother? She wonders.

"I'm alright Mrs. Hudson, it is Joan you should be worried about," the man says, holding her by the shoulders and giving her a mighty shake.

Not the mother then, Joan surmises.

"Why? What's the matter, Joan, dear?" The woman turns her worrisome gaze on her and Joan cracks a smile that she is sure looks uncertain at best.

"So, Mycroft clearly failed to notify you, I see," Holmes mutters before turning to her and pats the woman on her back once, "Joan, this is Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. Mrs. Hudson, Joan is suffering from memory loss. Hopefully, it is temporary. Now, let's show her the flat, shall we?"

He claps his hands together and flashes them a wide, quite the insincere smile before—there’s really no other word for it— _bounding_  up the stairs.

" _What?!_ " Mrs. Hudson exclaims, a hand flying to her sternum and frown lines becoming deeper with every second.

"Uh, hello. It's nice to meet you," Joan nods once, smiles a bit firmly now and eyes the staircase where Sherlock disappeared.

"Oh, it's alright, dear. You go on up. I'm too old to be climbing up those steps these days," the woman mutters, shaking her head before fixing her with a curious stare. "You really don't remember?"

Joan shakes her head.

"Nothing at all? Not one thing?"

Joan shakes her head again.

"Not even—"

"MRS. HUDSON!"

They both start at the bellow, Joan eyeing the next floor with a bit of apprehension before Mrs. Hudson shakes her head as if in a daze and ushers her on.

"You go on now, dear, we will talk later. I live right here so you can come visit whenever you want, okay? Alright, go now."

Joan nods mutely, a little baffled and a little in awe at how calmly this lady was taking in information of her  _memory loss,_ and begins to take the steps, two at a time. She is surprised to find him waiting at the door.

Joan nods at him, enters through the door he holds open, and puts one foot in front of the other, slowly taking in the details of the apartment.

 _Their_ apartment, she corrects herself.

What was all this _rubbish?_

The living room is covered in all sorts of things from newspapers to books to—was that a _skull?_

Her eyes zero in on the mantle, narrowing at the skull.

“That’s a skull,” she points, a little thrown.

Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, looks positively delighted.

“Yes! It is. A friend of mine. Well I say friend...”

Joan feels her eyebrows draw together and her head tilts sideways a little.

Moving on.

She spots an entryway to her left, labeling it as the kitchen on noticing the cabinets. The dining table is cluttered though and she realizes that it is overflowing with lab apparatus on walking closer to it for further inspection.

"Are you...a chemist?" She asks, eyeing the assortment of flasks, test tubes and measuring cylinders crowding the table. A burner is precariously balanced on a book at the edge of the table and a tripod stands upside down beside it.

She doesn’t expect anything other than a yes or a no and feels a little run over at his abrupt answer. Which leaves her all the more clueless.

"I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?"

"Means, when the police are out of their depth—which is always—they consult me."

"Oh."

He looks at her then, and she looks back at him, wondering if he looks expectant or whether it's just her imagination.

 “There’s the bathroom,” he points over her shoulder and she blinks at the sudden change in topic before nodding along and observing it. He walks her to it, opening the door for her to take a peek through. The sink looks like it’s covered in muck and she reels her head back in disgust.

“You might want to clean that. Exactly how long have I been out?”

He blinks at her and then mumbles, “It’s an experiment.”

“...Is it?” She puts down ‘ _Likes to experiment’_ beside the _‘Is disorganized’_ in the list of mental notes she has been taking regarding one Sherlock Holmes.

 Dismissing the list with a flick of her eyebrows, she turns to face the only door left in the apartment. He reaches for the knob from around her, making her lean against the bathroom door a little and turns it, pushing the door open.

“The bedroom.”

“Oh. Hum.”

It is surprisingly cleaner than the rest of the house. Spartan, in fact. She frowns at the bed.

“There’s...only one pillow,” she notes out loud.

Holmes, whose eyes have been skittering in their sockets while eyeing his bedroom, lets them settle on her face.

“Yes. I...” He draws the pronoun out, and then continues, “...have prepared the upstairs bedroom.”

He breathes in and then tries again, “For you. Your...comfort.” He nods once, as if that is what he had intended to say all along and she makes a sound of comprehension, gesturing as if to say ‘lead the way’.

“I didn’t know the place had two bedrooms. We own it, I presume?” She asks while eyeing the almost bare room on the second floor.

“Ah, yes. You had moved in as a flatmate. Before.”

She frowns.

“Earlier. Back in the day.”

She squints.

“Prior to our engagement.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Yes. Fine.”

She is left alone in the room when he closes the door after himself after giving the room one last look and she drops onto the bed.

“I forgot to say,” the door opens again and she jumps to her feet.

“Yes?”

“Call me Sherlock, please.”

She pauses and then tries, “Sherlock.”

He blinks at that, and then nods once again before pulling the door close.

She sits back down, relieved.

Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

 _“I thought I asked you to_ deal with it, _Mycroft. What happened to cleaning up a bit?”_

 _“I assumed we were aiming for authenticity, dear brother. I doubt your personality comes off as..._ organized _as a first impression.”_

_“Oh, shut up. Where’s all my stuff from the bedroom?”_

_“Ah, about that...”_

_“Mycroft!”_

 

* * *

  

“Joan!”

The hushed sound of relief is accompanied by the warmth of the man’s body, his arms tight and comfortable around her torso, as if the motion came naturally to him out of years of practice.

She relaxes into the embrace without question, a small smile of contentment forming on her lips. As a reaction to a stranger, it was most definitely alarming.

“Ahem!” She heard Sherlock clear his throat sharply. “I believe that’s enough now.”

The man pulls away, but not hastily so. He takes his time, gripping her by the shoulders and giving her a bright grin, his gaze searching hers with a warm familiarity.

“Ah, yes,” he flashes Sherlock a smile. “I’m so sorry. How rude of me to not introduce myself. It’s Greg Lestrade.”

Joan wonders if Sherlock had to notify all his colleagues about her condition before they arrived.

“Your pint pal. We crib about Sherlock over drinks.”

Joan laughs, an unexpected sound to all three of them, which makes Greg grin even wider and turns Sherlock’s eyes into slits. He's off grumbling in one corner though, so Joan doesn't notice him fume silently.

"That sounds plausible," she smirks.

She is inexplicably comfortable around Greg, considering the fact of her memory loss. She hovers around him through the entirety of ten minutes that they are on the crime scene, smiling back at Greg at intervals in response to his bright-eyed grins. He reminds her that her phone has his number saved and that she can call anytime to frequent pubs. She can almost feel the ghost of once strong, but non-existent camaraderie between them.

 

It bothers her, the crime scene. The exposed blood and bone doesn't make her nauseous. And that is what makes her want to feel sick. She shouldn't feel so...alright with someone splayed open right in front of her. It's not right, not decent and definitely not normal.

Sherlock glances her way for two seconds after having said something to Greg. Joan feels almost as if he were expecting something of her once again, the look same as the one he had given her in the flat and she feels her brow furrow in confusion before he turns his back to her.

Well, that was weird.

But she doesn’t have time to mull over it before a policewoman approaches her.

"Hello.”

“Hello...I’m sorry. Who are you?”

“Wow, you really don’t remember, do you? Sergeant Donovan. I work with Greg Lestrade.”

Joan stays quiet, hinting at the woman to go on.

“I can’t believe you have actually lost your memory because of that man. He’s gone ahead and finally done it,” she mutters, disbelief clear on her face. Her voice is a little too high, a little grating and Joan bristles at the hostility in it.

“It seems you have a second chance at life. Look...I know you don't remember anything but the least you can do is save yourself from him. If it hadn't been for him, you wouldn't have been in this situation in the first place."

She wonders if she should be defending Sherlock. He  _is_ her husband after all.

“Yes, but what to do? I married him,” she deadpans.

She never liked this woman anyway.  Or at least she has a feeling she didn’t.

The very next second, Donovan looks like she has choked on thin air, her eyes wide and lips agape and Joan just flashes her a humourless twitch of her lips before she senses Sherlock behind her.

“Let’s go,” he says and she nods and follows him out the crime scene, ignoring Donovan’s offended spluttering.

Sherlock is quiet on their way back and Joan takes this time to wonder why Donovan would be so openly rude about Sherlock—right in his _wife’s_ face.

She has noticed that Sherlock has a tendency to rub people up the wrong way, if that man’s behaviour around him—Anderson was it?—was anything to go by. But just because he wasn’t likable at first meet didn’t mean he didn’t have good qualities. Like his fondness for experimenting.

“She is right.”

Joan doesn’t understand who he is referring to until Sherlock turns to lock eyes with her and says, “Sergeant Donovan. If I had solved the case in time, you wouldn’t have had to face the culprit.”

She doesn’t like that he heard that. That he had to hear that because it was clearly intended for him to hear, considering how Donovan had been facing Joan, in direct line of sight of Sherlock. Joan doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know _what had happened_ in order to respond to that so she makes an observation instead.

“I thought the police didn’t consult amateurs.”

“The police _don’t_ consult amateurs.”

“Clearly.”

“Thanks?”

“You seem...brilliant,” she ventures.

“I am brilliant,” he says, half offended, half surprised.

Joan smiles at that, her lips curving at his immediate response. And his answering smile only serves to warm her up.

 

Sherlock hands her a file when they get back to the flat. It is compiled information about her entire life, according to his murmured words.

It is a little alarming to know that they had a file on her—his _sister_ _Mycroft_ did, apparently. But it’s a rather convenient help so she takes it without protest.

She pulls the blanket up till her abdomen and opens the file, settling down against the pillows on her bed after saying goodnight to Sherlock.

It was going to be a long read.

* * *

 


End file.
